Lights
by yi-xingxing
Summary: Anya Braginskaya, one of the most talented performers in Russia, was used to unusual customers willing to pay her for a night. But Wang Yao wants her for much longer a time...and for a much different purpose. fem!Russa x male!China. AU .


"светофор!"

Lights.

Suddenly the stage shone, bare except for the brilliance that shined onto it. A few more hasty orders and the colors were changed, the music adjusted, the curtain ready to be lifted. A patient audience waited by clinking their mugs and praising the previous acts.

Ah, yes, it was just another bustling day (or night, rather) in the Russian pleasure-house.

"Anya!" the crew called overhead. "Anya Braginskaya!"

A woman sifted through the other performers in the wings, careful not to damage her costume or makeup. Every detail about her seemed to be fair; not only in her pale complexion, blonde locks, or eye color, but by the sheer beauty of them all. In fact, some might argue that the makeup wasn't needed, but no, no, that wouldn't do. The people in the back needed to see her just as much as the people in the front did (although, frankly, her height made her difficult to miss).

The other entertainers were long gone from her domain, Arlov's orders. The stage _must _be bare when Anya performed.

"The best for the last," he would say.

"Занавес!"

Curtain. Anya stood perfectly still, not allowing a single breath to shake her delicate frame. Even though her pale hair shrouded her face, the crowd erupted. They knew whose face was underneath.

"принцесса! принцесса!" they called. _Princess_. For even though she bid her body for money, there was a sort of grace about her, a certain class that the other courtesans around her couldn't match.

The music began, slow at first. Anya's hands lifted upwards as her feet gently kissed the stage with each step. The crowd watched in awe, holding back applause as she danced. Ballet could be calming, mesmerizing even, but Anya knew it would tire most of the customers. After a few more sways and leaps, she descended into a split.

Then, the tempo increased. She propelled herself upwards again, using her legs as the drums to an old Russian folk song, and immediately the crowd was cheering. Anya now allowed herself to open her eyes, smiling, and more applause followed. Russians recited the lyrics as she danced, and while the foreigners fumbled with the words, they clapped just as much. With each sway her arms made towards the crowd, they would cry, "Ooh!" and cry out for more.

There were a few Americans watching her, the most impressed out of all who were here tonight. It made sense, after all, there wasn't nearly as much plastic jumping around in _her_ than their girls back home.

She recognized a few Germans for their strongly set face and eyes, and big-nosed Frenchmen that looked as if _they _had been the ones to bring her the ballet. Yet their eyes filled with nothing but appreciation (and perhaps a few other promiscuous emotions) as she twirled towards them. But she favored the expression of the Asians most of all; they were always the ones with the gaping eyes and mouths. _How could such a woman do such a thing? _they whispered.

Except for one.

He was vaguely interested, but his drink seemed to captivate more of his attention than she did. The seat he held was in the front, a seat she knew men everywhere would have killed to attain, and yet he appeared as if he regretted this decision...

Ah, not a problem! A princess wasn't so easily shaken-no frown crossed her face, her smile only widened, her movements only quickened, all in an effort to wipe that bored look from his face. The customers noticed her efforts, enjoyed them, and yearned for more. With only a few seconds to spare before the song was over, Anya balanced herself with the tip of her toe, over the edge of the stage, dangling, dangling, ready to fall into some fortunate man's arms…

A quick spin backwards, and she was upright.

_It is nothing, _she whispered to the clamor behind her.

She took a deep curtsy, inhaling the empty air around her before the other performers arrived. They filed behind her, joined hands, and bowed in all directions. Then the red curtain fell, but not before Anya saw that the seat of the disapproving Asian was empty.

Now was the time to frown, even though the applause continued. There was always the bad customer, the sour man who only wanted a good view and good drinks. Anya had no respect for them: to look at her body instead of her performance was to look at the cover of the book and not the full story.

The halls smelled of vodka, perfumes, and goodnights. All around there were congratulations for her, but they were too polite and much too intoxicated. She squirmed through half-dressed men and women, jugglers who _insisted _displaying their talents in front of her path, and couples that preferred the hallway to the closets. Just as she had a chance to collapse inside the safety of the dressing room, someone grabbed her arm. A frustrated sigh followed. She'd have to be delicate, the poor fool would be aching enough in the morning without her wrath…

"Oh?" A deep voice, one to which Anya turned with a forced smile on her face. It was a good thing she had, too, for it was Arlov who stood before her. "You want to leave without your pay?"

"I'll collect it tomorrow. Today's performance was…tiring."

"I'm sure, I'm sure. Wonderful as usual," he said, a hand reaching to pinch her cheek. Anya flicked his hand away, and he chuckled. "You even have a private customer from it. He needs to see you at once."

She frowned. "Well, if I'm to look best for him, I'll need a few minutes—"

"Anya. Now." Before she had a chance to show Arlov the colorful insults she'd learned from his business, she was shoved past the dressing room and towards his office. He was muttering things to her earnestly, but she was too upset to notice. "Lots of money," she caught from him, "very successful man in another country," "can't say no."

"Here she is, sir!" Arlov boomed, pushing Anya into the room. "My best girl."

"Thank you."

The Asian man from before. The one who had not only bored of her performance—but walked away from it. Anya took on an alluring stance-nothing too over-the-top, especially in front of Arlov-but a gaze that would also allow her to really focus on the man. Everything about him seemed rich. Ebony hair, amber eyes, ivory skin, all just as clean and shining as the materials to describe them. He wore a well-tailored suit and a silk tie to compliment it. And his shoes-no matter what currency the man used to pay for them-seemed to require a large sum. "This will only be a few minutes," the man said.

"All right." Arlov gave one cautious look at Anya before shutting the door. A pause, and then a chuckle, "And please, no business on the desk. Lots of files there."

The man rolled his eyes, then rose to greet the Russian woman.

"Anya!" she said cheerfully, shaking his hand. "I saw you in the crowd. You enjoyed yourself, yes?"

"It was a good show," he said plainly, taking his hand back. His Russian had a bit of an accent to it, but she could understand him nonetheless. "But that's not I want to talk about—"

"Oh, there's no need to rush," she said innocently, taking out a bottle of vodka for them to share. "I have plenty of time."

"I don't." Anya ignored the tone in his voice, handed him the bottle, and sat at the opposite side of the table. Her hands folded themselves neatly into her lap.

The man stared at the bottle for a moment, warily, but finally decided it was safe to drink. After a long pause, he spoke. "Are you...fertile?"

The giggle that flew from her lips was purely unintentional. She couldn't tell what has funnier: his question, or his expression as he removed the bottle from his mouth in disgust. He pushed it across the table for her to take. "Why?" she asked, after taking a hearty swig and sliding the vodka back in his direction.

He was able to catch it before it fell to the floor. "...I need a son."

"I thought there were many of them in your country?" she asked, trying to hide the tiredness in her voice. From what she had heard, the population across the Sino-Russian border was overflowing into the seas. There were plenty of young boys and potential wives, what did this man need her for?

"It cannot be adopted," he said matter-of-factly. "And I've tried before to marry over there, and it has proved..." To fill the pause he cautiously took another drink, shutting his eyes tightly. "…Difficult. The childbirth laws have strengthened in recent years. But here—"

"Women do not have many children." Anya smiled. "They are also paid when they do."

The dialogue between them had now become a sort of chess match. A drink, a remark, and then the clink of the bottle as it slid back and forth between them. The sobriety of both was waning, but the passing of the vodka-and of words-only grew faster.

The man nodded, returning the bottle to her. It took a mere two seconds for Anya to drink and slide it back. "As I expect to be. And not in fridges, either."

"I agree to pay it, as long as the baby is born in China. Starting price," he began, before she had a chance to interrupt, "two-hundred and seventy-five thousand rubles. That's fifteen-thousand more than what your government would pay."

In China? Where they were now wasn't too far from the border, but what if he was to take her to the central, or even southern area? "…If I do this, I lose my job," Anya said carefully. "For a year, or more, and it's all I can do. The money you give, if you give it at the start, won't last through the pregnancy, and if you give it at the end, it won't support me for the rest of my life."

"This career of yours won't, either." The man leaned back in his chair, confident.

_Ah, good_. Anya breathed a sigh of relief. The vodka had settled in.

"You're right," she said, standing up as she took another sip. "I make lots of money here, and if I were to be pregnant then I couldn't work here… And what if it was a girl?" The man was puzzled at the sudden question, and she talked rapidly so he wouldn't be able to interrupt. The vodka only fueled her, enhanced everything she had. "After it was over, I would have to raise her, and become skinny again, since this life is all I can live. And you would have to pay me too, to support the child." He looked ready to protest, but before he could she brought the bottle to the table with a loud _clink_. "And," she continued, "I'll need a real job. And a better home to live in."

"But—"

Anya pressed a finger to his lips. "You want a healthy baby…don't you?"

Gently, the vodka was pushed into his hands.

A few seconds passed, but as awkward as the air seemed to be, Anya's finger didn't waver from the man's lips. Finally, he allowed his eyes to dart from her gaze-was that a trace of a blush on his cheeks? "…A house, then." _He gave in! _Anya rejoiced, slowly pulling her hand away from his face, but still listening intently. "Mine. …It's well kept."

"I'm sure," she said. Servants, maybe? She was getting excited now; she'd only been a princess here, but in a place like his...

He furrowed his brows, clearly annoyed at how the tides had turned in her favor. "And I'll find you a job…and should you produce a son, I'll marry you," he slurred to her. But then he noticed her puzzled gaze, "Which…shouldn't be bad for you-I have lots of money-or I'll take the son and remove myself from your life."

"And if it's a daughter?"

He flinched. "I'll…send you payment each month to take care of it. But for now, starting price at three-hundred thousand…rubles." It pained him to say those words, either because of a bad headache or because of how much he treasured his money.

She smiled. "Done." The Russian woman and the Chinese man shook hands (even though her grip was far firmer than his) and rose from the table. The man shakily gathered his coat, bowed his head slightly, and went for the door.

"Oh, and Anya…"

It was the first time he'd said her name. "Mmm?"

"What you said about a healthy baby…" he said, gripping the doorknob for leverage. "That stuff…can't be good for baby…" Anya giggled.

He was able to compose himself, if only for a moment. "...Goodnight, Anya. I'll pick you up in the morning for…health checkup."

Another giggle at his attempts of movement, and then a flirty wave as he shut the door hastily behind him.

_Three-hundred thousand rubles_, she thought. The words echoed in her head as she took a cab home, as she prepared for bed, as she laid her head down and throughout the morning, even though there were other voices looming just overhead...


End file.
